


A Curse

by OrchidPeach



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, M/M, Sleeping Beauty Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22870360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchidPeach/pseuds/OrchidPeach
Summary: Geralt can't Sleep
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 274





	1. Geralt

**Author's Note:**

> I intend for this to end up multi-chapters with a full blown plot, but you can consider this completed for a long while. I don't have an update schedule, I'll just be sure not to leave cliff hangers so you can stop reading at the end of every chapter without being left waiting.

Geralt couldn’t sleep.

Something very unusual for the witcher. Sleeping hasn’t been an issue for him in over fifty-years. Back when his mother's abandonment and the experiments still haunted him. Back when people looking at him as if he was a monster still bothered him.

But for it to happen now, something was wrong, and it wasn’t natural.

It couldn’t have been.

There were no nightmares, no pains, no haunting thoughts of fear or guilt. He would lay, exhausted, finally ready for sleep, and it wouldn’t come. His eyes would close, laid against Roach on a soft pallet, warm, comfortable, and nothing would happen. He would simply lay until the sun rose. The first two nights he assumed he simply hadn’t needed any sleep, that his body was rested enough, it had been a bit since he had a decent fight, maybe his body wished for him to use more energy.

So, he walked next to Roach instead of riding her, he took three contracts for monsters and received his money in full. Two women at a brothel later, and a hot bath, now in a warm bed under a roof, Roach in a stable with food in her belly and safety of shelter and still, sleep would not come to Geralt.

He was tired, energy spent, muscles sore. He ate, fucked, drank. Bled and healed. But still, he couldn’t find rest.

After five days, things had gone from curious, to worrisome, to desperate. He was furious at anything and everything, searching for answers in unlikely places. Crazy enough he’d searched for a djinn, pleading for peace and rest. He used three wishes, asking for the same thing in three different ways.

Still sleep evaded him.

His next desperate attempt lead him to a village not far from Djinns river, he’d known there was a sorceress there. Maybe she’d have a potion or a spell. It was a woman he was unfamiliar with. Part of him wished to go to Yennefer but she was too far away, and he was simply too tired.

He came upon a cottage at the end of a narrow stone path. The door opened before he got there, Geralt stepped inside, the witch standing over a boiling pot. She didn’t bother to lift her gaze as he entered.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Witcher?” She smiled knowingly and sinister in a way that made his hackles rise.

“I can’t sleep.”

She tilted her head turning away from the pot, looking him over with a hum. 

“Take a seat.” With a wave of her hand a chair pulled itself from underneath a table and presented for him, without hesitation he collapses into it, so very tired of standing, yet the urge to get back up and move remains. He ignores it, just wanting it all to end.

“I wanted to be sure I heard you correctly, you said you couldn’t sleep?” Her smile was back and strong.

“Yes.” He grunted, blinking slowly, he looked up at her. “Fix me.”

“What do you want me to do? Give you a sleeping potion?”

“I’ll take any you’ve got. I hope they’re strong, the ones I had did nothing for me.”

She looks him over lips pursing. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

“At sunrise… six days.”

Her eyes go wide. “Six days? That’s quite a long time.” She circles him, fingers tracing along the back of the chair. “Not healthy.” She adds with a click of her tongue.

“It’s not exactly by choice!” He snaps.

She levels him with an unimpressed glare. Circling and bending so they’re eye level. “I’d take the tongue of anyone who spoke to me like that, but I’ll excuse you this once on account of your _dire_ situation.” She stands, going back to her pot, pulling out a wooden spoon and stirring the mixture. It smelled sweet, and like something Geralt wasn’t familiar with. “Fatigue can do strange things to one’s mind, and you're so close to death already it’d be a waste of my chaos.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, slumping further into the chair. “Are you going to fix me or not?”

“Well if potions won’t do the trick, I’ll probably have to try a spell. But I don’t think just anything will do. We’ll have to find the root of the problem, otherwise, I may send you into a coma, that or just stop your heart altogether, if it works in the first place.” 

“Good luck finding the cause.” He shakes his head, eyes closed now, yet it offers no relief. “I’ve been trying for days, I’ve got nothing.”

She pulls up her own chair and sits in front of him. 

“Have you tried anything other than potions?”

“I’ve fought and fucked, even spent three wishes on a djinn. Everything I can think of, I’ve done it.”

“Any chances you’ve been cursed?” Something lights in her eyes, and he considered it.

“I can think of a few people who want me dead, but magic doesn’t quite work on me.”

“Do you think maybe that’s why the djinn didn’t work?”

“No.” He sighs. “Magic can work _for_ me, and I can use it. Besides one powerful enough could do some magic on me, I just don’t think I’ve pissed anyone that strong off recently.”

“If this is your normal attitude then I don’t think it would have been very hard for you.”

“Ha. Ha.” He lets out dryly, she leans forward, reaching for his hands, turning them palm up.

“This most likely is a curse, anything else would have been overpowered by your body’s natural desire to regain its energy.” She runs her finger over his hands, almost like she was reading them. “Let’s see what you’ve got here.”

She hums a few times, looking over his hand, finger tracing his palm lines and darting over each finger. “There’s strong magic here, faint but there. Disconnected.” She smiles, fingers stopping in their tracking. “And here I’d heard Witchers don’t feel anything, emotionally that is.”

“What? What is it?” He asks, desperately hoping she has an answer for him.

“Good and bad news. You’re not cursed, you’re in love.” She drops his hand, turning to the table getting her things together. “Those were both the good news parts by the way.” She tosses over her shoulder. “The bad news is; the one you love has been cursed.”

“I don’t love anyone.” He shakes his head, the woman laughs.

“Oh yes you do, otherwise the spell wouldn’t work, and you wouldn’t be affected. Whoever they are must be in a sleeping curse, seeing as how it’s creating the opposite effect in you. They are forced to sleep, while you are forced to stay awake. It won’t break for either of you until you are together.”

He shakes his head, ready to deny the claim again, but thinks better of it. “How do I find them? Who is it?”

“You should know, you’re the one who’s in love, and finding them is the easy part.” She smiles. “You’re already nearby, you’re connected, you’ve most likely been naturally gravitating towards them since the moment they were cursed. Just follow your heart- or well, your instincts, you’ll find them.”

“If I can’t?”

“Well, I’m sure your Witcher mutations will keep you alive longer than most men, in fact, most would already be dead by now. I give it a few more days, two at the most. You’ll die without sleep, and without someone to wake them, your love will die as well.”

“Fuck.” Leaves his lips in a whisper, he pushes out of the chair. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome.” She looks him up and down. “Be sure to come back and let me know you’re alive if you find them.”

“I will not.” He grunts over his shoulder as leaves. 

Follow his instincts… It’s not that hard, he’s done it most of his life. Intuition and Witcher senses can get you a long way. But how does one find a love that doesn’t exist? How was he cursed for a love, who would think to connect him?

He gets to a crossroads, looking down each path nothing stands out. “Where should we go Roach?” He asks, petting her mane, “I’m so very tired and would like to end this.” His eyes slip closed, and then he feels it, a vibration underneath his skin, a pounding, a beat, slow, but quicker than his own still. A heart, one that’s not his own. Wind picks up, and his hair flows freely in its direction, almost as if the world is guiding him, he follows it. Every step increases the strength of the foreign heartbeat. He comes across a clearing in the woods, and in the middle of it, lays a wooden coffin, he approaches with care, eyeing the woods around himself with caution for traps. He finds none.

When he reaches the coffin he dismounts Roach, and looks it over before reaching out, touching it almost to see if it’s real, he grabs at the lid and pulls it open, eyes going wide seeing the figure inside.

Jaskier.

The name leaves his lips, he’s surprised, looking down at the sleeping form. He’s surprised because it’s been nearly a decade since he'd last seen the bard, nearly five years since he last thought of the bard, and here he is, sleeping, cursed. Something saying that they’re sharing a love.

Most of all, he’s surprised he didn’t guess it from the moment the witch told him it was a love curse.

He laughs out, loudly, one of hysterics born of dire fatigue. If there was anyone in the world he would love, on the short list of two souls that roam this earth, Jaskier was at the top.

His hand reaches out and his thumb traces the bard's chin.

He’s here. They’re together. Shouldn’t he be awake by now?

“I should have asked her more questions.” He sighed, speaking to no one in particular. What were his instincts telling him now? What comes next? “Well, I suppose if it’s a love curse, then a kiss will have to do.”

Not waiting for some higher power to tell him he’s right, he leans into the coffin and presses his lips to Jasikers.

The effect is immediate, Jaskier gasps, eyes pulling open as consciousness floods him, he pushes up, head nearly butting into Geralt's as he sits up forcefully. Their eyes meet, and for a moment nothing happens, Jaskiers lips part, words forming on his tongue, but Geralt doesn’t have time to listen, his eyes are drooping closed and his legs no longer hold him from the ground.

Ah, yes, blissful relief.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally got around to a second part, Jaskier is awake and very confused!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Just a reminder this as well as all my works it seems does not have an update schedule! Same as all it's unbetaed as well! 
> 
> Enjoy!!

Jaskier had never slept so deeply. Waking felt as if he was flung into the air from a vat of tar. He’d been dreaming, he was sure of it. Yet he couldn’t call a single one to mind. The only thought he had was of Geralt. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Witcher. So sure that he was simply a part of his dreams, Jaskier was caught completely by surprise when the witcher before him collapsed to the ground, a bracing clarity rushed within him, this was real, this was awake, and Geralt is _here._

“Geralt!” He yelled, reaching for the witcher from where his seat was perched and was stopped by weak heavy limbs, and a hot flash of pain cutting through his head and whiting his vision, a spell of dizziness took hold and he had to breathe, hand over his eyes he forced air in and out of his lungs and steady deep paces until the pain subsided. 

Once it was done, he took note of his surroundings. He wasn’t home in Dimhorn, the trees are much different here, wherever here is, and he didn’t recognize his clothing. A slight concern, but nothing compared to realizing what it was he was sat on.

“Is this… a coffin?” The alarm in his voice was only witnessed by Roach and God, and his great embarrassment as his hands clawed at his collar and felt for his neck, pressing into the skin and feeling the pulse of his blood, his heart pounding. 

He wasn’t dead. 

“Why am I in a coffin?” He asked aloud, Roach huffed as if that was an answer. He leaned over, looking to Geralt on the ground, snoring of all things. “What have you done, Witcher?” 

_

It took minutes- _Minutes_ that felt like hours, to get out of the coffin, which he didn’t do with any grace, and he would never admit that when he fell out of the blasted thing, Geralt's sleeping form unwittingly broke the fall. But that's what no good, useless Witchers do, now isn’t it? 

After propping himself upon a tree, and dusting himself off the best he could. Jaskier took stock of the situation and the Witcher. No obvious injury was visable, and some ~~light~~ snooping, and totally above board and professional examination, Jaskier couldn’t ascertain if the Witcher was poisoned or spelled. 

His skin wasn’t pale-- paler than usual. His heartbeat slow and steady. Geralt snored, his body heavy yet peaceful. He was sleeping, no injury, no foul play. He slept. Simple as that, and with that as an answer Jasker’s fears set aside, a deep aching hunger sat within him. He had to turn his sights elsewhere and care for himself until Geralt woke. 

_

The first place he looked for sustenance was in Geralt's bags. He had potions of all colors and thickness, but no food. Great, just like the man. With no signs of life in the eye seeing distance, Jaskier decided it was best to hunt. 

“I did not miss this side of traveling.” He whispered to himself and began working on a trap. A small one, enough to catch a rabbit if he was lucky and if not, a squirrel would have to do. 

The haphazard trap went untouched by all manner of life, mocking Jasker and his rusty attempts at feeding himself. He eats what he can get his hands on, which is a fit of desperation ends up being a handful of unidentifiable berries that he throws up an hour later. Hopeless, and the edge of starvation staved, Jaskier sits next to the still sleeping Geralt. Knowing that when the Witcher wakes, he’ll help Jaskier get something proper to eat until then he’ll get by on what he can. It shouldn’t be long now anyway. 

_ 

Not long became three days. 

Geralt simply wouldn’t wake. Jaskier tried to, believe him. He yelled, shoved, poked, and even dared to pour cold water from the river on his face. Nothing, barely a grunt. Three days and each passing hour only helped grow Jasker’s worry, he didn’t sleep, couldn’t, thinking he’d miss the Witcher finally waking after giving him such a fright. Anything could happen, anything could have happened. 

He still didn’t know where he was, why he was here instead of home. What he was doing in a coffin and what it might have had to do with Geralt. 

He inspected the damn thing, the coffin. Not that it held any clues, it was rather simple, made of light wood, sanded soft, with a thin lining of fabric on the inside. There were no signs of who made it or where it came from, not even a cross etched on the top to mark it for the heavens. 

Whether it meant they didn’t think he was going to the heavens, or they knew he wasn’t dead he didn’t know, nor did he know which to be more angered by. He looked from the coffin to Geralt. 

“I do hope you wake old friend. I wouldn’t want your death to be the first and last I see of you this decade.” 

It was in the early afternoon on the third day when Geralt finally woke, just after Jaskier had decided to wash up in the river after having caught and gutted a fish. Perfect timing that Geralt wakes in time for Jasker's first proper meal. 

The Witcher woke with a grunt, and a heavy snort before sitting up and stretching as if he’d only slept for hours and not three days. 

“Nice to see you’ve finally joined the land of the living.” Jaskier greets him after putting his clothes back on. “You were asleep so long I thought you may never wake.” 

Geralt looks him over nearly surprised to see him before nodding simply. Face expression leaving without a trace. “I was owed it.” He stood. “When you go six days without sleeping I’ll see you rushing to wake.” 

“Well, I’m nearing it myself. Three days looking after you making sure the crows don’t come for you, which they did try, _twice._ ”

“My hero.” Geralt smiled, standing, looking over his things, and petting Roach. “Three days? Huh. Felt like less.” 

“It probably would, you snored like a hog.” He pointed at the Witcher. “So loudly I might add, that you scared away any living thing from my trap.” 

“If your trap was in hearing range of my sleep snores then it was too close, to begin with.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Jaskier tended to the gutted fish, placing it on a weakly made spit over the small fire he got started. Distracted though, as a small buzzing made itself known in the back of his mind. 

“How are you, Jaskier?” Geralt asked, sitting across the fire from the bard. 

“Hungry, a bit tired. Better now, that you’re awake.” He looked to Geralt’s yellow eyes. “I was really worried about you.” 

“Strange, considering the way I treated you last.” 

“You mean our disagreement on the mountain? We made up long ago Geralt.” 

“Have we?” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Or has time simply ebbed your anger?” 

“Time is not forgiveness.” Jaskier laughs. “And I’m not one to forgive easily. I could hold a grudge for decades.” The words true, some people still hold a place of rage within Jaskier, from when he was just a teenager for transgressions large and small. “No, I forgave you because I know you were hurt, and whether you meant the words or not, I know you would not have said them if you hadn’t been in such a state.”

“Jaskier that doesn-”

“Just listen.” He held a hand up. His arm feeling heavy suddenly. “I traveled with you, for what felt like across the world on my two poor feet.” He stifled a yawn between his words. “I have seen things, beasts, magics, things that I would not otherwise have encountered much less survived if not for you. You protected me and were a good friend to me. In that simple and warm knowledge, I found that I could forgive you, for one incident of lashed out cruelness.”

“I don’t think friends should lash out at one another.”

“Forgive me.” Jaskier smiles softly, tired tears blurring his vision. “I do not believe you’ve had friends enough to know what friends do.” 

“This seems common sense.”

“People are emotional, friends, family even, they argue and sometimes hurt one another with words. So believe me when I say this Geralt. All is well between us.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Geralt looked at the fish cooking unevenly between them. “Is this one fish supposed to feed both of us?”

“No. It’s supposed to feed me if I don’t ruin it. If you want something catch it, and then maybe take pity on a lowly bard who protected you for three days and three nights and feed me.” 

“I’ll see what I can do, there should be a deer around here somewhere.” 

“Thank heavens.” Jaskier smiled as Geralt stood. Catching only the blurriest of images of the Witcher before he began to list forward towards the fire, eyes drooping closed. He was asleep before Geralt could even call out his name in concern, or catch him from falling face-first into the flames. 


End file.
